We All Know How To Fake It
by afeverdream
Summary: Aaron Cross has always been a hunter...Wolves he's not worried about. They can be put down with a silver bullet and some wolfsbane. Its the Leviathans running Organizations he's more worried about.


**I own nothing within The Bourne Series. Legacy is my favorite one so far and I adore the first film. I was in a chat and the idea was thrown out to make Aaron Cross part of the Supernatural world. So I had a little fun. I hope you guess enjoy. Song title and lyrics from We Must Be Killers by Mikky Ekko**

* * *

Words have power. He knew this better than most people. They had the power to soothe, anger, move nations to greatness and level them in the same breathe. One whisper could make someone love till they ripped out the heart of the person they adored beyond reason or even shutter that same heart against them for eternity.

He lay back in his bunk, staring at the names craved above him. All of them had power. Aliases that could make or break each person that tried to leave a tangible piece of they're worth when they lived in a world where they were only shadows and whispers. That's why he was here, to be an even fainter whisper.

He traced the outline of the hex bag that hung around his neck. Part of his skin ached for the sigil tattoo back but he knew that would be too much of a mark. His body was already scarred in ways that were difficult to explain. Faking his intelligence level to ease his way into this….experiment; that was one of the simplest cons he had ever preformed. And he knew how to run. He'd been doing it every day since he discovered _them. _

This program would only aid him in being quicker, a little bit more on the same level. If anything he would be more alert and aware of his surroundings. At least these pills would still have him be human at the core. No damning of his soul, black eyes and feeling despair as _something_ tried to chew its way out of him.

He could feel something in the air, it didn't taste right. Something was coming for him and Three (it always comes down to the rule of threes). Aaron just wasn't sure if it was the monsters from under the bed or the human ones this time around.

* * *

Long before he picked a new name, Kenneth Kitsome was a hunter. Oh he knew so many things. He was smart in his own way. Resourceful. Just not the shiny bright penny everyone expected. He was in his element when there was no one he had to look out for. He knew how to take care of himself. It was easy to fake a smile, walk with confidence, you didn't have to be genius level intelligent to see how at ease people became in a situation they just didn't understand (couldn't understand). Smile and blink Kenneth, smile and they'll let you through even if you don't know the professional terms but can see the real meaning painted in visceral and teeth peeking out of the corners.

Words have power but witches are better at them than he is.

He knows how much salt to pack in buckshot, where to slice into a vampire, how to avoid a redcap's jaw when they grin at him and malice glints off rotting fetid teeth within. He knows he needs to burn bones and where to find wolfsbane. He knows about crossroads and how little boxes buried underneath them lets you have a filthy tango with a woman in a red dress and she'll send the hounds of hell to rip a person up later when all is said and done. He knows how to tie the black eyed boogeyman down in a trap and drip holy water in its fathomless eyes until screams. He knows how the rest he'll ever get is in a safe room lined with sigils, blessings and curses.

He remembers when he used to sleep so tight and soundly. Until the night he felt the wet claw reach up and _scratch _at his covers. Recalls how every night after that he begged and begged for mommy to let him sleep between her and daddy. How if he stayed with them they all would be safe. The laugh and smile he received from _Mommy_ and the pat on the head from _Daddy _left phantom touches, ghosts of a safe time when everything wasn't quite so **real**. _Mommy _would smile and call him her bright boy. Laugh and twirl him around; always praising how observant he was. Looking at things so differently and telling her such delightful stories. She stopped laughing so much when he told what the _thing_ said it was going to do with the wet drip claw. She talked to _Daddy_ and they thought it was best he went and stayed with **Grammy**.

He kicked and screamed because **Grammy's **house was in the woods and she told awful horrible stories about wolves and how'd they trick you and then you'd need someone brave to cut open its belly and pull you out. _Mommy _TOLD _Daddy_ that's where Kenny got IT from. IT was dangerous. Kenneth wasn't sure if IT was worse than the _thing_. _Daddy_ said **Grandpapa **had IT, but that was a long time ago and **Grandpapa **has been sleeping for a long time and that **we were never to bring up family business like that ever.**

He was wrong about IT.

_Mommy _took him to **Grammy's**; _Mommy _didn't answer the phone when **Grammy **called. Oh how he begged to go home and threw himself onto the floor; crying so hard he almost vomited. They finally left because he knew something was WRONG.

**Grammy **could also tell; he knew it in his bones. He bolted from her truck the moment the engine stopped.

His wailing didn't stop for days.

* * *

The rest of his youth was spent in a tiny house in the dark dark woods. He lost something the day a wet clawed hand tore apart his parents. Ripped out their eyes and painted pictures in RED RED RED that parodied the sweet finger paintings his mother stuck to the fridge. No one said anything to Grandmother about how quiet he became, how slow he seemed. Something to be pitied, something that lost its copper sheen and started to oxidize.

He shuttered himself; it was easier to become slow. Not draw attention to his person. Hide IT and maybe just maybe; clawing nightmare monsters wouldn't try and devour anymore parts of him.

Grandmother taught him the tricks, the family business that Grandfather dealt in. Salt, water, symbols and lessons that made his head hurt. How he passed secondary school was a feat upon itself. The woman couldn't give a shit if he knew algebra. It wouldn't matter i (L2 + C )= 87. Only if it meant that Y and Z equated the demise of wendingos and lamia to the power fuckyoupieceofshit.

He took a chance joining the armed forces. It was a grasp a chance that maybe if he was surrounded by endless sand and a different taste of death; he'd be doing something people could actually see as useful. Too fight the monsters that people made themselves. For the first time in years he slept the night through, surrounded by flashes from scud missiles and the dock-a dock-a of gunfire.

He was on leave when Grandmother died. It was peaceful at least, quietly in her sleep in the little house in the still dark woods. He buried her next to _motherfathergrandfather_ and regrets. Kenneth took what he needed from that little house. A list of names, a book, a small leather bag and Grandfather's shotgun; he locked them away with a painting by a little boy that wasn't covered in RED RED RED.

Kenneth didn't expect to be met at the airport before he left for duty. He didn't expect the file pushed his way or the words Blackbriar and Treadstone to give him hope. That maybe with the extra push from these 'chems' he could be that much faster, stronger, smarter and SHINY once again. That maybe this was his chance to be able to return to a little house some day and not fear wet clawed dripping _things_.

Private First Class Kenneth J Kitsom's headstone was small compared to the rest of the Kitsom dead. After all he was killed in duty and sadly a body wasn't recovered. Hazard of modern warfare. Aaron Cross attended sad little memorial service. The locals came out because he died serving his country, the ones that mattered kept to the back and paid the Kitsom family name its finally respects. Cross stood behind it all and mourned for a small child cuddled between his parents.

* * *

Afterwards a few towns over he waited; knife strapped to his thigh and a list burning in his pocket and his eyes trained on the door from the corner of the rat hole bar he as haunting.

He heard the car and knew it was **THEM**, the brothers. He liked classic rock as much as the next person, he supposed if you were trying to go for middle man Americana blasting it was the way to go. Either that or it was a not so subtle attempt to drown out a conversation touching on frayed and split nerves because events seemed too similar to past transgressions.

Aaron wasn't surprised when a chair was scrapped into his line of vision and a cold stare greeted him when he lifted his eyes.

He didn't quite expect the flask of holy water to the face.

"Men don't typically rise from the dead." Was the only explanation he received.

His answer was a deadpan, "Nope."

A shit eating grin and drawn out 'right' made him thankful he left the proper hints.

The check ins didn't bother him, slip in and no name was asked and he would then disappear. If anyone questioned why there was a mark or bruise nothing was said to him. He shrugged it off that, rationalized that it was part of training. Conditioning him to not be bothered by pain or mild discomfort.

He rode through remote places. Following tracks, moving faster and quieter than his prey; he'd never take out more than a few creatures at a time. It wouldn't do him any good to draw significant attention to himself, from the government or the circuit of others.

When he did come across those of the same ilk he worked well with them.

He missed a check in because of a distraction in Wisconsin. She ended up being a mistake.

* * *

Slim and dark haired. She took out a Skinwalker with him. Teeth bare and a wicked vendetta in her eyes. He could still see the flames playing across her lily skin as they watched them eat away the aftermath.

She invited him back to her place to recoup, Aaron was tired and maybe he could rest because the time between 'chems ' had come and passed.

He watched froma doorway as her hands took apart the gun she had used. Eyes followed the slow stroke of her hand down the barrel. A tongue wetted dry lips as the swell of a tight breast showed in profile.

He felt the moan she bit back as he nuzzled into the back of her neck. His hands flitting underneath her ripped shirt. Reaching up to cup around what teased and pulled him away from his perch. One hand kneaded as the other moved lower and quickly unbuttoned denim and plunge eager fingers into her.

Her hands quickly forgot the cold piece of steel and tangled in his hair. She smelled of grease, smoke, leaves and the damp earth. She pulled back to for a moment to shimmy out of the jeans he had pushed down her thighs.

Her own fingers played across his shoulders and down his back to curve around firm muscle and pull him flush against heat that taunted him. He flipped her around and rolled his hips against her as she lifted herself around him, bracing her body on the edge of the table she was working at. He slid out of his own pants and plunged into her. Her throat bare as he threw out an arm to he could keep a steady pace, thrusting in a rhythm that had the table moving with every push and meeting of hips. Her shirt still on and he could see the bounce of her chest beneath the thin fabric. Her thighs tightened around his waist and he felt her let go as he shattered apart.

He put a silver and wolfsbane bullet in her two days later. Werewolves tend to get a little pissy when other packs try to move in on territory.

It taught him never to miss a check in again.

* * *

Now he's running from something that he's not sure of. Whether it's the human monster, the things from the dark or if it's an awful mash up of the two; he's not quite sure. He can hear the howling of the wolves and blocks the pain as he digs into his thigh. Closing his eyes he pulls out the little bit of metal. It's such a tiny thing to shove inside someone and try not to lose a dead man; such an easy thing to force into a snarling beast with the instinct to survive. The only thing he needs now is the way to keep IT with him, still shiny and helpful.

Hopefully he found it while watching press coverage involving something that WASN'T RIGHT. Nothing should be able to relentlessly shred docile intellectuals like that very _wrong_ thing had.

The hints where there, the others know people have started meddling where they shouldn't. He just needs a little bit longer to be able help. A little more to understand why he needs these 'chems' so badly to be able to finally rest.

It was a pity the storage unit was taken out when the drone burned everything down.

Wolves he can deal with. **Grammy **told him how to split them open and tear them apart. Aaron Cross isn't sure what he's going to find within. He's hoping a wide eyed doctor with espresso locks and an ability to realize how much a weapon words and knowledge in fact are.


End file.
